


Samson

by nightrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-07
Updated: 2009-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Title</b>: Samson<br/><b>Author</b>: nightrose_spn<br/><b>Pairings</b>: Sam/Dean<br/><b>Rating</b>: PG-13<br/><b>Word Count</b>: 2780<br/><b>Summary</b>: Dean gets cursed, and he can't be a hero anymore.<br/><b>Notes/Warnings:</b> For bia1007- I hope you like it, darling! Inspired by the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor. Rating is fairly low: there is language and non-graphic first time wincest in here. Please review!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Samson

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** : Samson  
>  **Author** : nightrose_spn  
>  **Pairings** : Sam/Dean  
>  **Rating** : PG-13  
>  **Word Count** : 2780  
>  **Summary** : Dean gets cursed, and he can't be a hero anymore.  
>  **Notes/Warnings:** For bia1007- I hope you like it, darling! Inspired by the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor. Rating is fairly low: there is language and non-graphic first time wincest in here. Please review!

**Title** : Samson  
 **Author** : nightrose_spn  
 **Pairings** : Sam/Dean  
 **Rating** : PG-13  
 **Word Count** : 2780  
 **Summary** : Dean gets cursed, and he can't be a hero anymore.  
 **Notes/Warnings:** For bia1007- I hope you like it, darling! Inspired by the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor. Rating is fairly low: there is language and non-graphic first time wincest in here. Please review!

The witch had golden liner around her eyes and her hair dyed jet-black. She was one of those irritating-as-fuck feminist ones who were out to prove the ancestral power of women, blah blah blah.  
Anyway, I didn't dodge the spell right, and now I'm trying to figure out what went wrong. I felt the blast of hot power to my chest, and I can see the little gold spiral over my breastbone, I know there's something up.  
Fortunately, I'm not dying, as far as I can tell. That's good. Narrow escapes from death get sort of exhausting after a while. Plus, my miracle escape quota is bound to run out eventually.  
I think I'm fine, though. For the moment. Obviously, that can't last.  
Sam brought coffee, thank God. It's going to be a research day, so I know I'll need it. I pick up my duffel, start to carry it into the motel room, and then realize it feels like it weighs about a billion pounds.  
I wonder if there are rocks at the bottom or something. I wouldn't put that shit past Sammy. Damn kid thinks he's so damn funny.  
Maybe if I didn't love him so much I'd give him the ass-kicking he so richly deserves.  
I barely manage to get the bag in the room, but when I unzip it, all it's got is my clothes and a couple guns.  
That's weird.  
I shrug and flip Sam's laptop open, looking for a hunt. I've only been online for fifteen minutes or so, when Sam walks in. Unfortunately, he's singing, and I wince. "Dude. You're so tone-deaf."  
He grins at me. "But I brought you coffee, jerk."  
I snatch the latte out of his hand and start to guzzle it down. "You wanna look for a case, bitch? I can't find anything."  
"'course not. I'm the one with the google-fu."  
I snicker. "Whatever."  
For a few minutes, I chug my coffee in blissful silence. It takes less than a quarter of an hour for Sammy to chirp brightly, "Found it!"  
"Found what?"  
"Found a hunt." He turns the screen around. "Andrea Meyers."  
The girl has long, dark hair and too much blue eyeshadow on. "She's hot."  
"She's sixteen, Dean. And dead."  
"And hot."  
Sam gives me a deep, slow sigh, the one that means 'I can't believe I'm related to an idiot like you.' "You want to hear the case or not?"  
"Hit me."  
"Her mother remarried a year before she killed herself. Guy named Chris Borrows. He's a registered sexual offender—indecent liberties with a minor. They had an autopsy done on her and found evidence of rape."  
Okay, now I feel kind of guilty about creeping on the girl.  
"Her mom and stepfather found dead three months later. Wrists slit—that's how she killed herself—while they were in the throes of passion. Every three months, another couple has died. All around her parents' ages, all second marriages. Ten people have died."  
"Vengeful spirit. Where is it?"  
"Lakeville, Minnesota."  
"Let's pack up in the morning. I'm beat."  
I slide off the bed and to my own, reluctantly as always. Of course, Sam has no idea I'd rather sleep with him curled in my arms. Even though I've had reason to believe, as the years have passed, that I'm not the only one who feels a little more than brotherly affection, I can't tell him.  
I'm not gonna risk losing the one person I've got left over something as essentially meaningless as sex.  
Sam shuts out the lights and I pull the sheets over myself, tumbling easily to sleep with the sound of his breathing in the next bed.  
The morning light wakes us. We stop for pancakes and coffee on the road. It's an ordinary day. Music played too loud, diner food, the Impala, Sammy bitching about all three right next to me.  
Everything I want out of life.  
It's an easy case. We don't even have to talk to witnesses. The gravestone is recent, clearly marked—everything simple. Just salt, burn, save people. We get a motel room for the night and hide out there, watching bad T.V. during the evening. Around midnight, we head to the graveyard.  
I notice something strange. I can barely lift the gasoline.  
And that's when it hits me.  
Damn it, damn it, damn it!  
That's what the witch did. The duffel before, and now the gasoline. I'm losing my physical strength.  
I hate witches. A lot.  
Still got a ghost to salt and burn, though.  
The girl shows up, dark hair swinging as she stumbles towards us, but it's easy enough to get the body burnt before she does any damage. Sam salts and I light the match. The perfect team.  
It leaves me with the best sort of rush, and the kick of adrenaline that always makes me horny after a hunt. Since I can't have Sam, I suggest a bar. We go to some dive. I play a little pool. Curse hasn't affected that yet. Nor my ability to casually grope the redhead that clambers onto my lap.  
I smile at Sammy and take a little stop-over at her place. This is life as it should be. Hunting with my brother, sleeping with a different hot chick every night, ending ghosts like it's nothing, going to a motel room that's only home because Sammy's there.  
He's asleep by the time the girl and I are done. I use that as an opportunity to do a little research on the mark on my chest. I find nothing.  
They really need to figure out a way to do a reverse search on Google Images.  
I've just finished giving up and am going to bed when Castiel appears out of nowhere. Again.  
I really hate angels.  
"Dean."  
"Would it kill you to use the door?"  
His face is, as usual, serene and stoic. "The curse cannot be reversed. This is my farewell to you."  
"The hell?"  
"Your strength will sap over time, Dean. You cannot continue to fight the war of heaven."  
"So all it took was a little curse and you're giving up? Really? Coulda told me that before. Back before you talked me into being your damn hero."  
"This may be a gift, Dean," Castiel says softly, and then—of course—disappears.  
I really, really hate angels.  
Fantastic. So I have an irreversible strength-sapping curse, a bunch of angels who apparently no longer want me to save the world, and a brother I'm in love with I can't tell any of this to.  
The one thing I hate more than angels? Witches.  
Sighing, I tumble into bed. This day took a hell of a lot out of me.  
I grunt and let myself drift to sleep.  
It's the third day, when my coffee cup is starting to seem heavy, that I realize I have to hide this from Sammy. I'm the kid's hero, I know it. I can't be weak. Not when it's my job to protect him.  
So I grin and shoulder my bag, knees buckling under the weight, and race him to the Impala despite the way my muscles cry, protesting.  
I can do this. I've hid things from him before. I can do it again, no problem. If there's one thing we Winchesters are good at, it's a little simple denial.  
"Hey, Dean, you heard from the angels?" he asks.  
"Nah. Weird, huh? Looks like it's back to the good old days for us." Except in the good old days I could lift my gun effortlessly.  
"Sweet."  
I manage hunts for a few weeks after the curse, but then I just can't do it anymore. I've hid the effort from Sam this whole time, but then I go to pick up the gallon of paint to lay a devil's trap and I fall right over. My lungs are burning. I've overexerted myself. I can barely breathe, I'm so tired. My mouth doesn't want to suck in air. My throat is sore with the effort of it. My heart hurts from beating. I almost, almost close my eyes and give up.  
Sam's worried face swims in my eyes. "Dean? Dean?" he's calling.  
"Sammy," I say, and succumb to unconsciousness.  
The next morning, I'm too weak to get out of bed. I lie there for a few minutes, turning my head desperately from side to side, until I finally catch a glimpse of too-long hair. "Sam!" I call, my voice gruff with desperation.  
"You son of a bitch," and I don't bother to tell him that's my line, as he stumbles over to me. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
"You know?"  
"Found the symbol. Did some research."  
And of course Sam could find out what it meant.  
"Dean, why did you hide this from me?"  
My eyes slide closed. "I'm supposed to be a hero, Sam. How can I be a hero if I can't lift my own gun?"  
His only answer is a heavy sigh.  
"How am I supposed to save the world if I can't walk?"  
"You've been saving the world since you were four years old. Maybe it's time to rest, Dean."  
I shake my head, and it spins from the effort.  
"I'll go get you breakfast, yeah?"  
"Yeah."  
He brings back bagels. I can still lift that, still feed myself. Later that morning, I manage to stay upright in the bathroom after Sam helps me there, but my strength is waning fast. I don't know how much longer I can do anything on my own.  
The next day, Sam has to carry me to the bathroom. I can't lift the whole burger but he cuts it into pieces which I manage to put in my mouth. It feels like a supreme effort.  
God, it's humiliating. Three weeks after the spell was cast, my little brother has to feed me. "Sorry," I whisper, and he freezes.  
"Dean?"  
"I'm sorry you have to do this, Sammy. God, I… I'd do anything if… you don't have to do this, you know? You can…"  
"What? Dump you at a hospital? Run out on you?" He guides me back further on the pillows. "I don't think so."  
"But-"  
"But nothing. You gave up your childhood to take care of me. Then you got hurt trying to protect me from a witch's spell. Now I'm going to protect you whether you like it or not. And you're bedridden so you can't fucking stop me."  
I sigh heavily. "How are you gonna pay for the room, Sammy? Food? What are you gonna do?"  
"I'm not. I put a down payment on a house yesterday. I figure credit card fraud can pay the bills."  
"Bitch," I mutter.  
"Jerk." But he's grinning even as he tucks me in. Like a goddamn baby, part of me thinks, while the rest relaxes into the soothing comfort of his hands.  
We move to our new house. It's a one-level place, painted in a soft gold. Sam drives, carries me into the place, and helps me sit down. There's a living room with a T.V., and he tells me the bedroom and kitchen are furnished too. "I bought it like this. Didn't think we wanted to go furniture shopping."  
Since I'm so weak that I can't stand independently, I think I'm with Sammy on this one.  
Sam carries me to bed. "Do you need anything?" he asks, bending over. His lips are just inches from mine, his eyes wide and loving and earnest and—  
Fuck.  
I get a boner like my dick's spring-loaded.  
Forget fucking—I can't even jerk off at this point. Wow. Shit.  
"Oh," Sam says, noticing, and if I could kill myself with my brain I would. I'd seriously like to just disappear into a nice, deep hole right about now. "You… Dean… I…"  
And then he realizes neither of us have the words and bends right over to kiss me. Just a gentle brush of his lips on mine. It's like a daydream.  
I can't grab his hair or pull him closer, but I lick the sealed line of his lips until they open. Sam just kisses me and kisses me, and I have no trouble finding the strength to weave my tongue into his mouth, to explore and taste and everything I've wanted for so long.  
Sam's big, strong hand wraps around my cock, and he slowly, lovingly brings me off, lips still sealed to mine. He curls his body around me and we go to sleep.  
We start my "rehab" in the morning. I want to be able to feed myself, to walk to the damn bathroom, to pick up the clicker myself. Maybe I'll never go back to normal, but Sammy promised he'd help me with this.  
"C'mon, Dean," he says, pressing the fork into my hand. "You can do it."  
I make a bitchface at him and curl my fingers around it. Slowly, oh so slowly, I push at the omelet on the plate, managing to pry a bite-sized piece off. Then I lift it, painstakingly slowly, put it in my mouth, chew and swallow.  
Three bites is all I can manage before my eyes are drooping—I'm literally exhausted. Sammy's smiling, though.  
"That was amazing, Dean. I told you—we're gonna get you better."  
And that's how the days go.  
I'm not getting worse anymore. I can't build up strength, my muscles just don't work, but Sam's helping me adjust. I learn how to do things without being able to use any strength. To treat my limbs like levers, to be more balanced, to be able to rely on Sam.  
Because Sam is always there. He wakes me up with a kiss every morning and holds me close every night. When I ask for something, anything, that I'm helpless to get for myself, he does so without complaining.  
After a while, a few months, I learn how to walk again. I can take the few halting steps to the bathroom, if Sam's beside me. I feed myself, change channels on the T.V., read, write on the laptop without trouble. I do all the credit fraud online, and Sam takes care of the house.  
It's wonderful, to have this place of our own. Sometimes I wonder if the apocalypse is happening, all blood and fire, right outside our doors. In here, we're safe, protected, together.  
We never discuss the sex. It happens so naturally, after that first night. I tease Sam sometimes that all the physical therapy he gives me is really selfish—I am officially strong enough to give blowjobs now. He just grins, flips me over, and returns the favor.  
Obviously, I'm not up to actually doing him—coordination alone would be a problem, let alone the effort of keeping my body upright on my hands for that long. He makes love to me instead, which is so not how I'd pictured things in twenty years of fantasizing about it. Especially since his dick is about a mile long.  
I also hadn't pictured it being the best sex I have ever had. Ever. Stupid Sam's so stupidly perfect all the time.  
I never thought I'd enjoy being fed on the days I'm too tired to do it myself, having Sam sit close by so he can hear me whisper when I need the page turned in my book, being made love to like I'm a glass sculpture or a girl or something.  
I do. I fucking love it.  
I love Sammy.  
In the end, I guess Cas was right. I didn't have to save the world, and I got to be with my brother. Safe, happy, together—what more do I have any right to ask?  
I miss the hunt, the rush of fire and speed. I wonder what it would be like to crash the buzz afterwards with Sam. I miss driving the Impala (I still hope I'll be strong enough to do that again someday) and diner pie and even, sometimes, big-breasted blonde waitresses.  
I miss being able to walk on my own. I miss being strong. I miss being Sam's hero.  
But being his lover, his treasure, isn't so bad either.  
My whole life, I've never been taken care of. Not once.  
It's not that bad.  
Okay, I'm lying. I think it's amazing.  
If I could choose? Go back?  
I'd choose this, every time.  
Sam bundles me in his arms and carries me outside. The sky is a bright, soft blue, and the sun shines almost as brightly as his smile does when I stretch myself to the limit and reach up to kiss him, soft and sweet.


End file.
